Blood of the Kasans
Blood of the Kasans is the main boss node in Orange Eyes and it lies at the center of the map. Two Kasan Standards are required to fight it. Enemies *Black Dragon Vision (1625 Gold, 200 XP, 125 Energy, 3 HP Normal) *Gold Dragon Vision (1950 Gold, 240 XP, 150 Energy, 2 HP Normal) *Blue Dragon Vision (2275 Gold, 280 XP, 175 Energy, 1 HP All) *Locked until all others are defeated.* Transcript Introduction Isabella picks up the decanter. She fills three of the goblets beside it, before casting a questioning glance at the guards. They murmur words of polite demurral accompanied by minute shakes of their heads. The queen passes the first cup to her husband and puts the second before Quent. She replenishes the one in front of Kara before returning the decanter to its resting place and taking her own. The messenger leaves her untouched. She simply stares into its purple-red depths like a seer, divining events yet to come in wavering reflections. Queen Isabella takes only the tiniest of sips. But Marlus... He drains his in a series of noisy gulps, his customary etiquette forgotten. Crenus doesn't blame him. The messenger's account of disaster in Nordent would be enough to turn the soberest man to drink. Countless lost lives, loyal soldiers and unwilling conscripts both bleeding their last upon distant snows. And Solus... A legendary being, one whose name and deeds occupy the very same chronicles as the Dragon-Rider himself... A terrible enemy, for more than just his draconic might. The king can already imagine his detractors' joy. How they'll love to invoke the azure drake as a symbol of heroism against his so-called tyranny... And that's not the worst. Far from it. Kasan... But such dire contemplation must wait for now. There's something of far more immediate concern... He sets his goblet down on the table, leaving the wine untouched. "What message did Hacan send for his son?" The king asks. "For his son?" Kara replies. "If he was badly wounded, surely he-" "Yes! He said that..." The messenger pauses, knitting her brow as though in the effort of recollection. "...that he should-" The king sighs. "General Hacan doesn't have a son, Kara." Her bright blue eyes widen. Her mouth purses into a small pink ring. Then things happen very, very quickly. Kara lunges to her feet, knocking her chair backwards to crash against the wall. She bumps the corner of the table, toppling her goblet -- sending a bloody splash across the dark wood and yellowed papers. One guard's moving around the table to pursue her. The other's scrambling over it, scattering piles of books and parchments in thudding, rustling avalanches. Neither is close enough to reach her in time. There's a slender dagger in her hand. Its gleaming blade and her desperate blue gaze both point at the king's heart. *** Revelry and misery. Exultation and sorrow. The specters that flit through the aftermath of any battle. Even in the hardy, fatalistic north, eyes and hearts weep for fallen kith and kin. The Frost Wyrm Clan has suffered its losses, men and women struck down by the impartial, unfeeling blade of war. But today theirs is the victors' portion -- their dead fewer, their mourning enveloped in the intoxicating thrill of martial triumph. It isn't so for their enemies... The orcs fought to the death, or else fled when defeat was certain. Either was palatable to them. Surrender was not. Among the king's soldiers, however, there were dozens who couldn't escape and had no wish to perish. So they threw their weapons down and yielded. Some wept, pleading -- honestly or not -- that they were conscripts, brought to Nordent against their will. Most faced their fate with grim resolve, hoping for quarter but expecting none from the Nords. Even you were surprised when word spread, carried by the shamans, that they were to be turned loose. Clemency can be a pragmatic thing. Prisoners can't be kept for long unless you have the provisions to feed them or the ruthlessness to starve them. Massacres ensure that the defeated will never fight against you again, but they also guarantee that future foes will be less willing to surrender -- as well as blackening your reputation among the populace. And from the look of the soldiers, many of them will desert rather than returning to Crenus' army. It was the decision you would have made yourself, though you hadn't expected the Frost Wyrms to reach it. Perhaps it was the work of their master. Their master... The blue drake has been perched on a hilltop since he landed after the battle, watching his followers with inscrutable orange eyes as they called out in veneration -- paying tribute to the incarnation of their promised destiny. When you tried to approach him, the Nords turned you back. They told you that he was meeting with the chief warriors and shamans of their clan. But one of those shamans descended from the hill and sought you out. She told you that Solus would speak with you later. Alone. That pronouncement made the surrounding Nords stare at you in awe. Thus you've bided your time, using your healing magic to aid the wounded and joining in the meal of spit-roasted wyvern that Hugh prepared over infernal flames, stealing glances at the mighty azure frame. You're certain that from time to time he's looked at you in turn. The Nords gradually depart from the field and make their camp a short distance away. Your companions join them at your behest. You sit in solitude, waiting whilst the minutes draw your closer to your destiny, watching the blue wyrm as the clan's leaders finally come down from the hill -- heading to join the feasting and drinking at the camp. The shaman who spoke with you earlier meets your eyes and nods her head as she passes. It's time... You turn from her to the hilltop. Those oranges orbs are on you once more. You hold their gaze as your stand and walk towards him, maintaining it unblinking when you ascend the hill. He doesn't look away either. In a few moments you're standing before him, in front of the blue reptilian face that the Dragon-Rider once saw bursting from its shell. "You have questions," he says. His voice surprises you with its softness, with the strangeness of its accent. "And I will answer them. But first there are questions I must ask of you. I wish to know about the journey that brought you to me." A different voice, a woman's, rises through your memories. "In time you'll meet someone, and he'll question you about your travels -- about everything you experienced since you arrived in West Kruna. It's important that you answer him truthfully in every other respect." His eyes seem to scrutinize you. Perhaps the dawning epiphany is written upon your face... But when he speaks, it's only to ask the questions for which a blue dragon and an elven bard have both prepared you. They're... varied. Sometimes it's as though he's leading you by the hand, each query so specific as to make the answer appear superfluous -- as if he's asking you for mere confirmation. At other times he only nods, as though satisfied. And at others still he exhibits genuine surprise. When you tell him about the Black Tower and your encounter with Faustus, his shock and sorrow are powerful in their sincerity. His questions become quicker, laden with the naked desire for knowledge and understanding. But you mustn't tell him of our meeting here, and what I revealed to you. Medea's words ring in your mind, along with a strain of harp music. You do as she said, and tell him nothing of the maze or its maestro. However, you hold nothing else back. For the first time, you share the thoughts and emotions that have weighed in your mind like stone. Sinister, fate, enveloping destiny... The plight of a man whose life isn't his own, is just a feeble shadow of one that came before... All these things flow from your lips. Time passes unnoticed as you unfold your tale and your tragedy. When at last you finish speaking, the two of you are bathed in moonlight. "Destiny..." he says. It emerges as a sigh. "It is a strange thing. When I came to these lands with your ancestor, and gained a sliver of my mother's far-sight, I knew that I would one day return and lead the Frost Wyrm Clan against their enemies. Who can say whether there was truth in their prophecy, or whether the two of us shaped the future when we deceived the Nords so long ago?" "Then... you don't know either?" Icy fingers stroke your heart, spreading their chill through your whole body -- radiating along every vein and artery. The thought that Solus is only part of the web, another victim unable to offer anything but acknowledgement of your suffering, threatens to smash your soul to pieces. "There are things beyond me, as they are beyond you. But that doesn't mean I cannot aid you." Several seconds drift by. Twin moons shine on the surface of Solus' orange orbs, little silver discs trying in vain to eclipse mighty suns. "You wish to step from your ancestor's shadow, to go beyond his path rather than be trapped in the shade of his legacy." "Yes." "I can offer you this. Humans speak of bloodlines and heritage. These things are real. There was strength in your ancestor's blood, potential that went unfulfilled during the generations when his predecessors merely worked the land. Might, leadership, courage... All these things were part of his being -- as they are of so many others who never find cause to draw upon them. And his blood became more powerful still during the course of his life. No man could have experienced such adventures unaltered, have spent so long clad in eldritch panoplies and channeling the sorcerous forces of potent artifacts without a change being wrought upon them. Upon their blood and thus their lineage. "You spoke of unusual dreams, of visions... Perhaps these are part of that inheritance, passed down to you by virtue of the time he spent in a realm where dreams forge their own realities." "You're telling me what I already know -- that the Dragon-Rider left his mark on the Kasans. On me." "Yes... His blood is strong in you. It's aided you in your mastery of arms and spellcraft, combat and cunning. But I can offer you the chance to carve out a new road, for yourself and your descendants. With my aid you could become not merely part of his line but the beginning of something greater -- the one who elevates the Kasan blood into a force that will be felt throughout the eons, long after his name slips from the minds of man." "How?" That one word is all you can manage, a primitive manifestation of a myriad warring questions. "Your blood is strong. Mine is stronger. It too was changed during the war, infused with abilities and energies stole from other drakes. Kalaxia's far-sight was but the first of them. You, Kasan -- not your ancestor -- can be the one to bind your bloodline to mine, and change the fate not of one land or kingdom but of worlds beyond number." "I'll do it." The words fly from your lips as though they were always on the tip of your tongue, eternally slumbering until this moment. There's no contemplation, no indecision. It's time to forge a greater destiny. One of your making, not his. "Take this cup." He turns his snout, indicating a wide, deep silver chalice that escaped your notice until now. It stands in the snow, shining the same shade as the moonlight -- as though fashioned from that ethereal substance. Engraved Nord runes gleam upon the precious metal, forming a frieze around its outer sides and a swirling tondo within. Solus turns his head in the opposite direction as you take it up, bringing the left side of his neck close to you. He reaches up to it with the middle digit of his left foreleg, and drives its claw between his scales. A narrow crimson rivulet flows from the wound, reddening his azure hide. Argentine light dances upon the dark stream. It splashes into the cup, hiding the runes beneath its shimmering surface. "Drink," he says. The chalice is full now. He draws away and fixes his orange eyes upon you once more. Red droplets fall from his blue hide, dyeing the snow beneath. You raise the cup to your lips. Conclusion Isabella's hand darts out in a quick, sharp motion -- flicking her goblet towards the Nord. A purple-red stream splashes from it, into Kara's face. The messenger turns her head, her eyes blinking in a futile, belated defense against the blinding wine. Crenus grabs the woman's arm, seizing her by the wrist with one hand, pulling the other against the inside of her elbow. His leg hooks hers. She cries out as he shoves her backwards onto the table, and pins her there with the dagger's point braced against her throat. "Hacan's dead, isn't he?" the king asks. Kara struggles, trying to throw him off, to claw at his face with her other hand. One of the guards moves in, reaching out to secure that arm. She turns her panicked face towards him, then back to Crenus. "The blue wyrm watches!" she shrieks. The messenger brings her neck upwards with a sudden burst of strength, drives her left hand against the dagger's pommel before the guard can grab it. The blade pierces her windpipe. *** Reality spins around you in multicolored waves of mingled color, sound, and smell -- a shed garment powerless against the might of draconic blood and human dreams. It swirls and cascades, forming a thousand nonsensical tableaus that come and go too quickly for comprehension, before settling into a nocturnal scene like the one you splintered when you drained the chalice. But this time it's darker, untouched by the moon. The ground's the green and brown of churned up earth and grass instead of blanketed with blood-stained snow. A familiar sight rests on your left. A walled town, one you've never seen with waking eyes yet know all the same. Fallows. There are people around you. Some you recognize: Roland, Medea, Marcus. But they're fainter than before, like phantoms. The sounds they make are muffled as well, coming as though from a great distance. The final swirl of multisensory weirdness resolves itself into a large, monstrous form -- one weightier and more vivid than the faded shades that people this place. The black dragon. Erebus. "Traitor," the black dragon hisses. "Get out of my delusions," you reply. "You were his enemy, not mine." Your sword flashes. The black wyrm's face parts like mist, dissolving into vapor. The rest of his body follows suit. It disintegrates into a big black cloud that twists and turns, spins and swirls, and changes hue. The world decides to change as well. It shimmers and shifts, blinking out of existence and back in a new guise. You're standing in Bluselle. Again there are people around you, but this time they're solid and sturdy, fashioned from true memory instead of dreaming recollection. There's Tessa, firing her bow at royal soldiers and orcs. And Hugh, with his cleaver in one hand and Brachus' sorcery burning around the other. The rest too -- the other companions who fought beside you in the town, along with its inhabitants -- all battling the greenskins and Crenus' men. The capering vapor settles on gold as its color. And it reforms to create a drake of that hue. "That's more like it," you say. Then you lunge forward, driving your blade into its neck. Purple blood gushes from the wound. Reality blinks again. Bluselle is gone in an instant. There's blackness all around you, the deep dark of the night sky, broken only by blinking stars. There's no ground beneath your boots, nothing holding you aloft but your mind's disdain for the finer points of gravitation. Solus coalesces in front of you. "There are thousands of worlds around these suns. All of them will be changed by your blood," he says. "By our blood." Images flash before your eyes, rapid and eclectic. Men, women, and dozens of beings you don't recognize. Incomprehensible weapons and mighty engines of war. These you ignore, things so far removed as to be important in their existence and their magnitude but meaningless all the same. But some visions flash bright among the rest, bearing inscrutable significance. There's a warrior in golden armor, its pauldrons forged in the image of dragons. He's clashing blades with a man who... You. It's you he's fighting. You try to grab hold of that image, to examine it. But it's gone. No matter. There are many others... You immerse yourself in them, letting them flow over and around you. Many are wondrous. Others terrible. But all are somehow beautiful, each one a symbol of what you've brought about. "Kasan!" A man cries that name, your name, the name of the line the Dragon-Rider began but you brought to fruition. Then he drives his fist through an enemy's chest. The words carries power, because of you. Because of the binding of blood. You try to seize another image, but they're flowing too quickly now, slipping into one continuous stream of azure light. It draws you along, catapulting you through the void, hurling you back to... You're standing in the snow, on ground that seems impossibility heavy and solid. Solus is in front of you, in the flesh this time. The flesh and blood. "What now?" you ask. "Whatever you wish." *** Crenus gazes up at the moon, still bright in the heavens -- unmoved by the machinations or sufferings of those upon whom she shines. Isabella leans against him, sharing the vision that's mirrored in their goblets. Sleep eludes them both now. Marlus Quent went into action at once. He dispatched soldiers to the Master of Messengers' home before Kara's body had even been borne from his chamber. The man was brought to the castle in his nightshirt, and taken to see the corpse. Marlus chided him when he wept, though the king didn't begrudge him his sorrow. It proved the matter quickly enough. Kara had truly been a royal messenger, schooled in the job by the master himself -- not an assassin masquerading as such. And she had indeed been sent north with Hacan's army. Where she'd defected and become a weapon of opportunity for their enemies. Crenus had already suspected as much. The girl was far too nervous and unsure of herself to have been a killer by nature or training. The chance of striking at the heart of his inner circle had simply been too tempting for them to pass up. The advisor had been the target, of course. She hadn't expected the king to appear before her. Her anxiety and uncertainty were evident, the realization that her plans had to change and become even more breathtaking in their audacity. Perhaps if he hadn't uncovered her deception she would have made a better attempt on his life, picked her moment more carefully. Instead she's wrapped in a white sheet, awaiting burial. Quent suggested that her entire tale might have been a pack of lies, Solus and the Kasan merely part of the story concocted to get Kara into his private audience chamber. The king had pretended to entertain the possibility, even though he knew it wasn't so. "That description she gave of him..." Crenus says. "Exactly like you said." Isabella sighs. " Kasan... At least we know who he is now." The thought gives them little comfort. So they take what they can from one another's warmth, the sweetness of the wine, and the soothing silver moonlight. Category:Orange Eyes